‘They’re good,’ I said, nodding across at the paintings. She smiled faintly. ‘What else do you do?’
Rita frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Portraits, landscapes, or just modern art?’
‘Oh.’ She laughed nervously. ‘You think they’re mine. Whatever made you think that?’
‘You said you took art classes.’
She blushed. ‘Ah. I didn’t explain. I do life classes.’
‘You paint?’
‘No. I pose.’ It took me a second or two to realise what she meant. She smiled sadly. ‘Think Beryl Cook. You might get there.’
I blinked. For one crazy moment, I’d thought she’d drawn the portrait of Gabriella. How ridiculous I was. How useless.
And now silence rested between us. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. How could we move on from this point? More importantly, what would I do now that these threads had unravelled? Gabriella was my half-sister. A truth had been exposed, but it was a raw and unwelcome reality. I wanted to cover it back up. Stitch over the spaces with brightly coloured lies. Stop it from distracting me from the only thing I wanted to know. What happened to Gabriella?
The sky was darkening, changing rapidly. The wind picked at my clothes, burrowing through the gaps as I trudged along Devil’s Lane. The familiar pieces of information I thought I’d known had been gathered up and scattered. And yet, I reflected, as I hauled myself over the stile and walked across the green, what had changed? Rita was my mother’s loyal friend as she’d always been. Edward Lily was innocent as my father had said. Gabriella was my sister.
The steps down to the lake were slippery. I held on fast to the rail and shivered beneath the tunnel of trees. I trod carefully along the path which was flooded in places, choked by dank foliage, wet with mud. The lake stretched out before me, a green slick of slime covering the edges, clusters of yellow leaves and broken branches floating on the water.
The police had done a fingertip search of the lake in a last-ditch attempt to find Gabriella. It was after the reconstruction and the dozens of useless sightings that had come in that day. She’d been spotted in Oxford, Southampton and Hull. She’d been seen alone, with a twenty-something man, with an old couple, with a dog. The furthest sighting had been in Sweden. The closest came from a clairvoyant who said her body lay in a shed on the edge of the village.
Letters had arrived from well-wishers: parents whose children had died, believers who told us to trust in God. And young people who’d run away from home, who’d talked about abuse and neglect, or simply the fact that they hadn’t fitted in. All the runaways had said the same thing. They had no intention of ever going home.
My parents had kept those letters. I’d found them bundled in the sideboard, tied up with a ribbon. I’d read them all one night, when my mother was asleep, just before I’d left for London.
A solitary swan drifted across the lake. I imagined its feet paddling madly out of sight. It was such an effort to glide like that, such an effort to keep on going. I’d given up years ago when I’d stopped searching for Gabriella. And now I knew I’d failed again, the only mystery I’d solved being one I hadn’t even known was there.
As soon as I got home, I gathered my emotions and tucked them away and laid everything out on the table: the portrait of Gabriella, the scrapbook, my notebook, the photos of Lydia I’d found in Edward Lily’s desk.
A gust of wind flicked through the open window, ruffling the pages of the scrapbook. If I believed in ghosts, it would be a message. If I believed in a deity, it would be a sign. But I had faith in nothing like that, not anymore. I only had my intuition. The answer was here. Had my mother thought that too? And if she hadn’t given up, why should I?
Inside were articles from different newspapers which showed the same photo of Gabriella time after time. I read about Tom’s ever-changing story, the way he’d been hounded from the village even though his innocence had been proved. I read from the point of view of the witnesses, the well-wishers, the shocked residents in the village. Nothing was concrete. Nothing was proved. What had Mum hoped to find?
I shut the scrapbook, feeling suddenly lonely, and glanced at the clock. Five o’clock. Was David back from his trip? Had he gone to the pub like he often did? Maybe I could claim that drink he’d offered. Grabbing the laptop, along with the scrapbook and my bag, I made a decision. If he came in, I’d pretend I was working, rather than waiting for him. My cheeks burned at the childishness of my idea, but even so, I hurried out the door.
The pub was empty apart from a few men at the bar who, from the way they propped themselves up, looked as if they’d been there all day. I avoided eye contact, ordered a glass of wine and took it to the table by the fire.
I returned to the scrapbook and carried on reading from where I’d left off. There were more interviews with shocked people from the village. There was a photo of a group of mothers waiting for their daughters outside the school, and another of people streaming into church. I peered closely, identifying those I knew.
The last few pages of the scrapbook made my heart miss a beat. Here my mother had attached different articles relating to girls who had gone missing around the same time as Gabriella or later. I picked one of the girls at random. Her name was Claire, she was thirteen years old and she’d gone missing in Dartmouth in 1984. I typed the details into Google and found the same photo my mother had cut out and stuck inside the scrapbook.
The girl was dark-haired and plump and lived miles away. She and Gabriella had nothing in common apart from being missing teenagers. I scrolled onwards looking for more information. Claire had been found – dead in a ditch. Raped and shot through the head. The police had investigated farmers with their shotguns and eventually they’d made an arrest. The girl’s teacher. There was no explanation of how he’d got the gun.
I typed in more names from the scrapbook, and scanned the reports. Each of the stories was different, and all of them had been solved, save for a blonde girl with a fringe from York called Victoria Sands who’d been raped and strangled in 1982. Her body had been found in a river. The girl’s picture was familiar and I remembered hearing the story on the news.
I studied the details again. Her family had been quite ordinary – her father an accountant for a stationery firm, her mother a carer in an old people’s home. Were they still alive? Quickly, I googled their names and found more recent articles. The mother had died years before, but the father still lived in the same house in York. He refused to move, he’d told the reporters. His memories were there. There’d been a brother too, but there was no information about him. Only a photo taken in the eighties of a sad child of ten or eleven, in a mini-suit and a tie, staring at the camera.
I held the picture close and recognised the look in his eyes. It was the dazed expression of a sibling not understanding why his sister had disappeared. How had he coped on that day? Had he listened to his parents talking with the police – not understanding, only wanting his sister to come home? Had he heard his mother weeping through the night and been afraid? Had he spent lonely vigils at his window making up stories about where his sister had gone?
And when the body had been found, had it been a relief for the family – a way to find peace – or an agonising wrench knowing the rest of their lives would be infected by the memory of what that man had done?
A single day had determined their lives would never be the same. As mine hadn’t been. Or this boy’s. He understood more about me than anyone else I knew.
I focused again on the stories. Parallel cases. Is that what Mum had been searching for? Yet there had been no real similarities since most of these crimes had been solved. And all of the bodies had been found. Perhaps Mum had been drawn to the fact that these girls had gone missing. They had parents who understood her pain. Like the boy who understood mine.
And yet. Parallel cases. How far had the police investigated? I typed unsolved murders into Google and trawled through them. There was one in 1983. Marian.
Aged fourteen. She was from Glasgow and had been raped and strangled. There was a reference to some similarity with the death in York, but the investigation had been abandoned. The girl had been from a children’s home and the article made a lot of the way she’d been dressed – the length of her skirt and her make-up. The police had said she’d probably run away and they’d found her coat at the bus station. I rubbed my temples, scratching my face with the ferocity of the movement.
Scrolling onwards, I looked for similar stories. All through the rest of the eighties there was nothing, or nothing similar at any rate. I was starting on the nineties when David appeared. Flushing, I closed the lid of my laptop and placed it hastily on top of the scrapbook.
David wore dark trousers, rather than his customary jeans, and a light blue shirt that had been ironed until sharp creases showed on the sleeves. He carried a smart jacket and his hair was combed flat in a style which didn’t suit him. I wanted to reach out and ruffle it up.
‘I’ve been trying to find you,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair and spoiling the look himself. ‘Are you all right?’
It took a moment to realise what he was talking about. ‘Ah. Sorry about the phone call. It wasn’t important.’
He raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment, going instead to the bar and bringing back a glass of wine and a pint of beer. Sitting down, he folded the jacket neatly and placed it on the seat beside him. ‘Are you working?’ he said.
‘What?’
He leaned across and tapped the lid of the laptop. ‘Writing.’
Catching a whiff of his lemon aftershave, I nodded, and before he could speak again, I asked him about his trip. He described what he’d been doing – helping an old lady in Leeds with a house full of antique furniture and cats downsize to a flat in Ripon.
There was a lull as David sipped his beer and I gazed at the fire, my mind dragging back to the scrapbook on the table between us. The mention of Ripon had made me think of the girl with the fringe in York.
‘So everything’s going well?’ said David, breaking the silence. ‘With the house clearance I mean.’
‘Absolutely.’
He put down his glass and raised his eyebrows again. He wasn’t stupid. I’d rung him out of the blue and then denied there was anything wrong. I distracted him, describing items from the house clearance he’d already seen, asking his advice about the best dealers to approach. Eventually, I became aware that my voice had taken on a higher tone. I was talking too much and too quickly. I was repeating myself. I drank more wine. I’d let David think alcohol was the reason.
‘Another?’ he said, pointing at my second empty glass. I shook my head. ‘Food?’ He looked at the bar.
‘I’ve eaten,’ I lied. I needed to go. David’s eyes were full of sympathy and knowledge. I stood up too quickly, stumbling as I tried to grab my bag and my laptop at the same time.
‘Don’t forget this.’ He held out the scrapbook and my legs buckled. Two large glasses of wine on an empty stomach was the reason I gave myself. I’d be fine once I was home. I only had to make it out the pub.
‘Wait,’ said David as he took my arm to steady me. ‘You look terrible.’ He spoke softly and I caved in, dropping back into my seat. And then he was talking again, telling me about when his parents had died, one after the other, in the space of a year and how hard it had been for him and his brother. My eyes filled with tears. ‘Hey,’ he said, leaning towards me and laying his hand on mine. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I only think you’re brave, dealing with all of this on your own.’ His voice dipped. ‘You’ve lost a lot. Maybe I can help.’
I shook my head. He had no idea of my loss. ‘You can’t do anything.’
‘Try me.’
I breathed out slowly. Was this the right time to speak? Was this the right person to tell? My stomach turned over with the thought of it. All these years of silence. What would it be like to break that?
‘Anna,’ said David gently.
My heartbeat quickened. ‘It’s my sister,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Your sister? God. I’m sorry. I assumed, since you were here on your own, you didn’t have one.’
A silent tear rolled down my face. ‘I don’t,’ I whispered. ‘Not now.’
David’s expression changed as he watched me. It was a slow understanding like the unravelling of dawn. ‘Tell me, Anna,’ he said.
And so I did. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone in my life. I told him how beautiful Gabriella had been and the fun we’d had. I told him about our grandparents and Uncle Thomas and Donald. I told him how one day my sister had gone; in an instant she’d disappeared. And how hard I’d tried to find her even when everyone else had given up. And I explained how I’d frozen my feelings, but that now, everything had begun again. The house clearance, the portrait, Gabriella’s father. That old desire to know.
By the time I’d finished talking, my tears were coming steadily. David was shaking his head, not knowing what to say. He pulled out a tissue and offered it to me, his eyes full of sympathy. The men at the bar looked across curiously. I shouldn’t have said anything to David. What did he think of me now?
‘You do know you couldn’t have prevented whatever it was from happening,’ he said at last.
I wiped my eyes and shrugged. ‘I sometimes think if I’d heard something or seen something, I might have stopped it, saved her. Or maybe if I’d done things differently, it might have changed the course of events.’
‘What do you mean? How could you have changed them?’
‘If I’d got up five minutes later; if we’d walked instead of run to school; if she’d worn her hair differently; if I hadn’t dropped my glasses.’
He nodded. ‘You mean the butterfly effect.’
‘Yes,’ I said, staring at him with hope. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
He sat back in his chair. ‘You can’t think like that. You’ll drive yourself mad.’
‘I already have.’
‘I know but . . . small differences – at least ones like you’re describing – can’t change really serious events. I don’t believe it.’
‘I know. You’re right. It’s just . . .’ I pressed my fingers to my temples.
‘It’s the not knowing, isn’t it? I understand that, in my own way. When my wife first got ill. I knew there was something wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me, not for months. If she had, maybe she would have been saved. And you know,’ he said, looking beyond me as he spoke, ‘grief never goes away. You can disguise it or turn your back on it, but when you look closely, when you turn around, it’s still there.’ He paused. A man laughed at the bar and David gave a wry smile. ‘Grief is an unwelcome guest. The only thing you can do is let it live alongside.’
We stopped talking, both gazing down at the table, lost in our thoughts.
‘What about the portrait?’ said David after a while. ‘Would you show it to me?’
I scrabbled in my bag, drew out the picture and laid it in front of him. He looked without speaking for a few moments before he spoke again. ‘She was very beautiful,’ he said.
I smiled. And we sat with the portrait between us, in a reverent kind of silence. And along with the sadness, I experienced a warmth, as I acknowledged it was the first time I’d truly shared my loss with anyone.
24
1982
A crowd had gathered at the school gates, pointing at the cameras and the lights as if the crew had come to film a show. I pulled up my hood. It smelled of Gabriella’s perfume and her hair.
The police were staging a reconstruction: Gabriella’s last journey. My parents said it was too late – more than two months since she’d disappeared. The police had been distracted, following the wrong suspects, and now the time had gone. I’d left Mum at home knitting a scarf with furious concentration while Dad was working in the garden, digging up non-existent weeds.
The road was blocked. No cars. And the crowd dropped into silence. Now there was only the ghostly trundle of a
road sweeper’s cart as a lookalike Tom walked past. People followed behind the camera crew, who in turn followed behind and around and in front of a girl. She looked like my sister. She wore a school uniform and had ribbons in her hair, but she was taller than Gabriella and less graceful and she moved differently.
I wanted to catch up with the impostor, to tap her on the shoulder and say no, she didn’t walk like that, it was like this, and her pace was faster. I wanted to demonstrate, even though I knew I could never copy Gabriella. She was like a gazelle when she moved, upright, long legs stretching. But the girl was too far ahead of me and there were too many people in between, jostling and shoving, craning their necks to see, so I stepped away.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I felt the stitching tear. And when the stragglers had cleared I saw Martha on the opposite side of the road. She spotted me too and after a moment’s hesitation, half ran towards me, her hands outstretched as if she was groping in the dark. And when she reached me, tears streaming down her face, she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, only a strangled sound, like a sick animal.
I felt dislike and disgust and pity all bundled together as we stood looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to say.
‘Biscuits,’ she whispered at last.
‘What?’
‘I bought biscuits.’
What was she talking about? Did she think I wanted biscuits? Did she think biscuits would make me feel better, like Rita thought tea would fix Mum, and Grandma Grace thought stories would make us forget, and neighbours brought food thinking we could eat?
Did Martha believe that now Gabriella had gone I’d be her friend instead? She’d tricked Gabriella. She’d taken advantage of her good nature. Well, my nature wasn’t good. It was terrible, and now, a new emotion – white and hot and furious – was burning me inside.
The Missing Girl Page 19